


The Return

by extremiss



Category: El Nolibusterismo, Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Elias and Crisostomo keep losing and finding each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return

**Author's Note:**

> x-posted on tumblr: http://kahrasuno.tumblr.com/post/124066038716/

i.

Crisostomo was naïve. It comes with being blissfully privileged, Elias once bitterly thought. 

Now he thinks it was more of a part of the former’s true personality; that he was, perhaps, born into the world having immediately had a major flaw:

He was too trusting.

Elias would sometimes think that Crisostomo believed in others  _too_  much; put too much faith in humanity, where others deserved no semblance of sincere kindness at all. He is what Elias had always pegged him to be— wide-eyed, idealistic, youth.

An optimist.

A romantic.

That’s mostly where he and Elias differ.

(But on those still nights, side by side under the old Nara tree by the Ibarra residence,

when the quietness of the breeze overlaps with Crisostomo’s steady breathing,

and the stars are scattered on the vast expanse of the evening San Diego sky,

there’s an unexpected flurry of a previously unnamed emotion stirring in Elias’ chest, and a distant throb he can’t even dare to ignore breaching his heart’s surface. He looks at the tired, worn-out smile spreading slowly and sleepily on Crisostomo’s face— the very same face that remained to be somehow still full of hope.

He tries not to stare into the reflection of the firmament’s starlight dancing on his brown eyes and Elias thinks:

 _I might be a romantic as well._ )

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Crisostomo understood what his heart had been yelling at him for so long when the star-covered heavens reclaimed Elias.

(When fate wrenched him from Crisostomo’s grasp; when they plucked Elias’ breath from his lungs, and took his heartbeat away for themselves.)

There’s blood that isn’t his painting over his palm, and there’s someone else’s name escaping his lips in the form of a desperate plea. His throat is hoarse, his hands are trembling violently, and his eyes are sore.

The pain in his chest suffocates. All the memories come flooding too quickly.

His eyes hesitantly fall on the body before him, and the body refuses to move. The dead look on his face seems to be mocking him. With a sharp inhale of breath, he spouts an infinity’s worth of gratitude, of apologies, of  _love_ and of eventual heartache all at once.

Crisostomo swore to find Elias again in the next lifetime.

 

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

But Elias found him first.

Elias had been delivering mail that day, the sun directly beating over his head as he biked down the path of Roxas Boulevard. The fast winds were blowing past tanned skin and dark hair when he saw  _him_  from the corner of his eyes.

It was unmistakeable.

Elias felt it again; the rumbling beneath his ribs, the skip in his renewed heartbeat. He saw his face, light hair and eyes, and he  _knew_.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The pads of his fingers tap the keys on his brand new typewriter in an offbeat, uninspired rhythm. The clicks fill the room like they echo, and Crisostomo feels intrigued, and also  _finally_  motivated, at the same time, upon remembering something. 

His name is Elias, he was told. Elias said he knew him from somewhere. Crisostomo doesn’t know if this was some new late 18th century flirting or if it was a big convoluted prank, but the man had insisted that in another lifetime,

they were in love.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“I bought take-out from the diner across the street.”

Crisostomo looks up from his writing briefly. Elias had invited himself into Crisostomo’s study, it seems. “Oh,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” replies his good friend. It’s been a while since Crisostomo had met Elias. The then-seemingly-crazy neighborhood mailman had revealed himself to be a likewise very passionate and—not to mention— _genuine_  person. 

And so Crisostomo overlooked the sham fate-and-destiny business, and here they are, months after, friends.  _Just_  friends, is not quite the term or situation, but Crisostomo stubbornly persists otherwise.

Crisostomo’s glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, but before he even notices, Elias is only a breath away, and pushing them back to a proper fit for him. Crisostomo can’t even sputter a proper thank you—Elias nonchalantly changes gears too quickly. “So what are you working on?”

“A novel.” Crisostomo near-mumbles.

“What’s the genre?” Elias is opening said take-out, laying the food down on a nearby desk. “Detective mystery seems to be big nowadays.”

If Crisostomo is trying to appear like he’s not being distant on purpose, or that he isn’t bothered by  _something_ , he does a poor job of it. His hold on his fountain pen is loose, as he traces the same lines of a letter over and over.

The sound of Elias’ sighing makes him grip tighter; the paper almost rips. “If it makes you happy, I’ll give up on you.”

The words are said so painfully—like the decision was the lone thing in Elias’ life able to hurt him anymore. And it might as well have been, but Elias figures that if he can’t have Crisostomo completely in this life, he should at least stay alongside him in any sort of way, even if it meant nothing of a romantic relationship.

“It won’t make me happy.”

Elias, surprised and perplexed, raises both eyebrows.

Crisostomo inhales and then exhales a sigh, his fingers rubbing exasperatedly on his temple. “It’s just. It’s just what you’ve said before… I—I can't—”

—Crisostomo can’t bring himself to believe it, is what he wants to say. He  _doesn’t_ believe it.

Not until the faintest brush of their fingertips triggered a course of electricity under his skin. He looks into Elias’ eyes, as if just to confirm—and he finds his answer, because then Elias is kissing him. And Crisostomo? He’s kissing him back.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

This lifetime is not one Elias had hoped for. 

Crisostomo looks uneasy. He’s averting his gaze, silent, but not for long.

“I have good news and bad news.” Crisostomo says, to the point. “They’re going to publish my book.”

Elias feels the beginnings of a sincerely excited smile, and that—

 _That’s_  why Crisostomo had not been looking at him. This is what he did not want to see. He doesn’t want to hear Elias spew glad and unwary congratulations, so he cuts him off. “And they want me in America.”

Elias blinks. His eyebrows are starting slowly draw into a furrow. “What?”

“I’m going to migrate,” clarifies Crisostomo. “to America.”

Elias almost chokes, disbelief settling into every corner of his face. He can’t be hearing this right. He looks for signs on Crisostomo’s face that could give away his lying, but Elias can’t find a spec of untruthfulness. This is his reality.

“You can’t go.” He quietly says. His voice shifts in a subtle, desperate tone, and he isn’t even aware he’d reached out to place a gentle hand on the side of Crisostomo’s face.

Crisostomo almost gives in; almost forgets to look away from the deep shade reminiscent of unsweetened coffee in Elias’ eyes. Thankfully, his hand comes atop Elias’, only to hesitantly remove it. “But I have to,” whispers Crisostomo.

Elias knows better than to be selfish. Elias knows how to love. He steps back, looking entirely detached, and the sight of it honestly hurts Crisostomo. “Okay.” Elias says. “I understand.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Years pass and he’s opening a book— _The Return_ , it was called—he’d received in the mail. He’s careful not to move too much on the messy bed, as his current lover is sleeping peacefully by his side. 

He turns the hard-bound cover to the first page, and what he sees almost causes a spike in his chest.

 

 

_For E._

He has to pause. His hand comes to soothe his head, a plethora of questions barraging him at once. Why did he let him go? And was he not sure that they’d been soulmates? The regret was strong, as it’s always been. It was strong enough to wake up anyone else around him by merely feeling it in the atmosphere.

A groggy, barely-awake and vaguely concerned voice arises to pull Elias from the book.

“You don’t have just one soulmate, Elias.”

Elias’ upper torso twists, and he’s craning his neck to meet her in a fevered kiss. Now she’s draped over Elias, legs tangled in sheets, bare skin on bare skin.

“I might believe that,” lies Elias, forehead to hers, “and if I did, then next time maybe I won’t have to see him go?”

“You won’t go through it again.” She replies, a soft whisper to his lips, “I promise.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

iii.

He has always been a brave heart. Crisostomo doesn’t  _just_  chance upon him in this life — rather, he grows up with him. And well, Elias is tough, a little bit reckless, a little bit clever, but burning with conviction and ever genuine.

Even as a child Elias had been this way.

Crisostomo meets him on a summer’s day, by the sea. He had been sitting on the seashore, collecting sand in between his toes when he befriends a kid, who showed stunning colors of delinquency.

He deliberately had hoisted himself over to the other side of the fence that read “DO NOT ENTER” in angry red letters, and Crisostomo merely followed behind him. This was a restricted part of the beach; Crisostomo’s never been— _naturally_. At this age, Crisostomo would have prided himself in being an abider of the law.

“Look what I found,” says the boy with sun-kissed skin and black hair, “it looks  _really_  old and valuable.”

On the palm of his hand is a—true enough—expensive looking rusted silver locket. Elias had dusted off some of the dirt on it, so that they could see that it had been engraved with the initials M.C.

Crisostomo gets the feeling he’d seen it before.

“You can have it.” Elias says, offering it to him.

“It’s not mine.” Crisostomo retorts childishly.

But at that time, Elias was equally as childish. “Fine.” He says, stuffing the new find into his loose pockets. “I’ll get you something better someday.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

That ‘someday’ hadn’t come yet, but the Japanese came. They overtook the nation. They drove families to the mountains and sparked anger within communities—particularly, Elias’. The outrage, however, extended to Crisostomo in a different way— he doesn’t believe in the Hukbalahap rebellion, but he believes in justice, and he does believe in Elias. 

Elias would return, reeking of blood and carrying with him the distant fanfare of momentary victory. Elias smiles guiltily and tiredly by the doorframe, and Crisostomo only frowns. Nevertheless, he procures a medical kit from the cabinet that was barely holding up, and sits Elias on a chair.

“What is it this time?” asks Crisostomo, unimpressed. He strips Elias off of his damp top, wiping down his torso to rid him of the dried blood. Said blood might be his or otherwise.

“I misestimated, is all.” Elias replies, hissing when the wet towel comes into contact with a particular cut on his waist.

Crisostomo silently finishes tending to Elias’ wounds— or at least, he’d almost finished when Elias swooped down to capture his lips in a kiss. It all downhill from there, and Crisostomo doesn’t necessarily mind the warmth nor the pleasure.

(But he  _does_  dread waking up some mornings, because his childhood friend was bent on marching toward certain death.)

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Elias is all suited up, bayonets and guns and all. There’s a look in his eye that was beyond just anger— it was pure determination. It was a desire to win. It was the lone driving force of these guerrillas: that, and their deeply-rooted courage. 

They  _will_  win, Elias’ resolve is telling him.

Crisostomo just wishes that instead of the instinct to win, he’d have the instinct to survive.

That, in itself, is the problem.

Winning does not require for men to be alive. The dead can be winners. The dead, however, are never survivors. Crisostomo gets the feeling that living and dying doesn’t matter to Elias anymore, and this scares Crisostomo beyond belief. ( _He doesn’t want to lose him like has before._ )

“Elias, please.” Crisostomo foolishly pleads one last time.  "Please don’t go.“

 _You loved me once_ _—_

— _and I’ve lost you to your bravery before._

“I’m sorry.” Elias says, expression regretful. He holds Crisostomo’s hands in his gloved ones, slipping something into his hands. “’Someday’ hasn’t come yet. I still haven’t found anything better.” Crisostomo looks at the locket of their childhood, and can’t believe Elias still has it. His vision blurs, clutching the locket tightly. He doesn’t need anything better. He only needs Elias.

But Elias has made his decision, and his decision is war.

Crisostomo has always hated war. (There is just one thing he might hate more.)

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Was he selfish for wanting him to stay instead? Perhaps, but he was not wrong. 

Someone comes to deliver the news, and Crisostomo’s world falls apart a second time.

There’s a parcel that comes with the news. It contains whatever they were able to recover from Elias’ possessions. He’s short of breath when he takes some paper tucked neatly into what was once Elias’ jacket’s breast pocket.

He unfolds it. It’s a picture. Of them.

Nothing special. Sepia-toned, and horribly washed out by age and wear and tear. They were teenagers, and it was the last time they were able to see the sea of their youth.

At the back was a note, hastily written in Elias’ handwriting, no doubt:

 

_Someday I’ll bring you here again._

 

Crisostomo cries until the morning.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

iv.

He’s not a fish out of water, at least not in college. College is filled with so many fish out of water, and this specific fact is so paradoxical in nature that one would begin to wonder how all these expectant students still hang on.

The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up until his elbows, and his hands are stuffed into two of the many pockets of his cargo pants. He has his worn-out headphones around his neck, and his hair tied up into what is called today a  _man-bun_ , as he navigates his path around the campus.

He meets some of the fellow activist acquaintances along the way, and offers them a friendly-enough greeting or a meager nod of the head. Elias knows a lot of people, but is not actively a social butterfly.

 _He_ , however, is a social butterfly.

He’s always,  _always_  surrounded by people. He flashes a charming smile at the circle that tends to form only when he’s around. Elias can’t even begin to imagine himself in Ibarra’s place, but he gets the feeling that Ibarra isn’t as sincere about spending time with his peers as he lets on, either.

Today isn’t different— Elias finds a secluded spot where he can read and listen to his tunes in peace, wrapped in what could be misinterpreted as an anti-social air, and Ibarra isn’t too far away, crowded by his peers, more or less appearing like he’d give anything to be anywhere else.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Elias’ assumptions were proven right, as they often were.

When he locates his special spot as a part of his routine, he finds Ibarra directly across it, wordlessly alone, and his nose hopelessly stuck in a book. He has reading glasses on, and is clad in a skinny jeans and polo combo that just screamed  _upper class loser_.

His eyes catch sight of the title,  _The Return_ , and he unconsciously grins. “Yeah, that’s a nice book.” He says, settling down cross-legged next to Ibarra.

The sudden new voice makes Ibarra jump, startled. A little bit peeved that’d he’d been rudely crept up on like this, he shuts his book closed, and folds his designer glasses back into their respective case. “I know,” scoffs Ibarra, “why do you think I’m reading it?”

“I was thinking maybe you’d be more into Wattpad.” Elias replies, quick to retort. The end goal was to get rich boy to  _seethe_ , of course. “Wait, woah, is this an original copy?”

Elias takes note of the browning pages, and the ruined, softening spine of the hardbound book. He’s never seen an original copy of this book before.

“Of course it is.” Ibarra tersely responds.

Elias is raising an eyebrow, curious. “Do you dislike me, Mr. Ibarra?”

“…No.” He admits. “Quite the opposite.”  _You_ _’_ _re not fake, but you_ _’_ _re not Mr. Congeniality either, but I_ _’_ _ll take it_ , Ibarra thinks.

“So… you like me?”

Ibarra crosses his arms, refusing to dignify this with an answer.  _Don_ _’_ _t get ahead of yourself._

Elias’ mouth twists into a slight scowl, entirely confused by how hard it is to talk to someone whose image consisted of smiling and chatting about menial things. If both being nice and being sarcastic wouldn’t work, what would?

“Let’s get coffee, then maybe we can  _openly_  judge each other this time around,” offers Elias. “But none of that Starbucks crap. I’m poor.” He quickly adds.

Elias hears a candid chuckle from Ibarra then, and realizes he wants to hear it again and again.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

‘Someday’ came in this lifetime.

Elias and Ibarra—no,  _Cris_ , go on a boat ride some years past their first meeting. They’re doing some rereading, sort of, with the sea to keep them company.

Cris is resting his head where Elias’ neck and shoulder meet, an especially old book from his college days in his lap.

 

> _Jane is wrapped in the tranquility of the ocean, when she pours her heart into the waves:_
> 
> _“This could be our last lifetime together, or we might have thousands more. Thousands where we meet; where we don’t._
> 
> _But I know, that across lifetimes, he’ll love me,_
> 
> _and I’ll love him._ _”_

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry jose rizal


End file.
